“Check what?” Valgard said.
“That you have a dick.” She grinned. “I like ’em better that way.” Botolf snorted. “So if you boys are done playing for now, we should keep moving. We have a ways to go, and it gets cold up here at night.”
“Due north?” Botolf asked.
“Due north,” Thora said.
The shadows grew longer around them as they marched, and Valgard winced. Every single part of his body hurt. Walking was painful, but stopping and starting again would be a lot worse. Jagged peaks had risen out of the clouds in the distance, illuminated by the setting sun, and the cliffs were closing in on both sides. They were moving up out of the valleys and into the highlands. He noticed some of the men conferring in hushed tones.
“Time to stop, I reckon,” Botolf muttered through the layer of cloth that covered his face. He gestured toward a shadow below the cliffs on the right-hand side.
Valgard shrugged, and Botolf, taking that for agreement, raised his hand. Ormslev, the bug-eyed trek-master, appeared by his side. Valgard could not hear their conversation, but he watched nonetheless as Bug-eye nodded crisply and started barking orders. The formation broke up into individual piles of cloth and fur. A group of men brandishing axes went to the perimeter and started shoveling
snow with the flat of the blades. Within moments, piles had been formed into blocks and blocks into walls.
As the horses were led into the enclosure, Valgard realized what Botolf was doing: the shadow below the cliff was hard ground, sheltered from wind and snow, and the new-built walls would take care of the rest.
The pale sun set on fur-covered fighters huddled around miserable fires. Sheets of cloth had been strung out over spears set at angles to make a windbreak against the worst of the weather; a light, silent dusting of hard frost had already colored them white.
“Ah, the life,” Botolf sighed. “Just us and the wild. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Valgard accepted the flask Botolf handed to him. The liquid was sour and burned all the way down his throat, but he bit his cheek and kept a straight face as Botolf smirked. Someone shouted something at the other end of the camp; there was laughter. The fiery drink settled quickly in Valgard’s stomach.
“You’ll be happy to see the rising sun, Grass Man,” Botolf said as he rose, and as Valgard shuddered farther into his furs he added, “Oh, don’t be sour now. Come. You need to claim your prize.”
“What do you mean?” Valgard muttered, gritting his teeth to ward off the mounting screams of pain from his spine.
“The stars are out.” Grinning, Botolf offered a hand. When Valgard took it, the tall chieftain yanked him to his feet with a strength belied by his skinny frame. “Let’s go and get our sweet little flower, shall we?”
They found Thora sitting in a circle of Botolf’s men, telling filthy jokes. Pinkish liquid had leaked into her eyebrows from a small open cut in her forehead. Someone had stuffed it with snow.
One of the men in the circle sported a recently and very thoroughly broken blood-caked nose.
“Kverulf! What happened to your face?” Botolf asked.
Thora stopped talking. The tough guys assembled around the fire looked determinedly in any direction but at their chieftain. Some of them were smirking; others were trying hard not to laugh.
“I’m sorry, my Lord Scrawny,” Thora said. “Kverulf here thought he’d take advantage of little old me while my hands were tied. Only he isn’t too sharp at the counting bit, is he? There’s one of me, but there was only one of him.” Chuckles around the fire; even Kverulf offered a gap-toothed smile. “And of course I told them of our undying love, how you begged me to marry you and all that. My beloved.”
“Fuck off,” Botolf said. He couldn’t quite keep the smile out of his voice. “You’re coming with us.” He yanked Thora to her feet and half-pushed, half-dragged her away.
“Remember to tie her feet and flip her round, Chief!” Kverulf shouted after them, and the rest of the men offered their own encouragement. “And watch the teeth! Hers—and yours!”
Roars of laughter washed off their backs as Thora fell into an easy stride just behind Botolf. “How far?” he asked her.
“Just away from the fires,” she said.
Valgard hobbled after them, watching closely. There was something in the way they walked . . . Botolf
liked
her.
That might make things a little harder.
On the other hand, if his hunch was right, he’d not need Botolf’s muscle—or anyone’s.
“Here,” Thora said. “Hold on.” She turned, scanned the horizon and muttered to herself. “Yes—there it is. We’re going”—she pointed up the slope, toward the highlands—“that way.”
“Sure?” Botolf asked.
“Get stuffed,” Thora snapped.
Botolf just looked at her and smirked.
Valgard turned and hobbled back toward his lean-to.
Sometime later, the light changed from dark to a pale milky gray. Valgard dusted the snow off his clothes as he saw Botolf scan the camp; Bug-eye the trek-master hovered close. Something about the rangy chieftain’s stance dragged Valgard swiftly from slumber, through several shades of pain, and into the waking world. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t catch a word of their whispered conversation. He stumbled to his feet and didn’t need to act at all to look
feeble and helpless. For a few short moments he thought he might see to his aches, then he counted them, and abandoned that notion. Everything hurt, and that was how it would be.
Around him the camp was coming to life. Muttered curses and invocations to anyone or anything promising warmth floated on the air; horses snorted, stamped, and shook off blankets of snow. A sudden jolt of panic made Valgard swallow his breath:
the prisoner!
Where was she? He looked all around—and then saw her crawl out of Botolf’s shelter, hands still bound.
“We’re going,” a familiar voice snapped. Botolf stood behind him.
He fought and defeated the urge to jump out of the way. “And good morning to you, too,” he said. “So soon?”
“Fuck off. Piss and shit now. Eat on the way. And keep your eyes open.” With that, the tall man strode off.
Valgard watched him leave. Something was wrong, that much was certain.
“Over there,” Bug-eye whispered and nudged Botolf into position.
The chieftain scanned the horizon to the north and lingered only slightly longer on the tree line that the trek-master had indicated. The forest crept alongside their path, a dense mass of frozen branches and snow. “Got it,” he muttered. “Who? And how long?”
“Don’t know. I think they watched us last night.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to take a good look, I’d guess, though it’s hard to tell how near, what with the morning snow.”
“Anyone else know?”
Bug-eye looked at Botolf and shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Haven’t asked.”
“Don’t,” the tall chieftain snapped. “Just keep an eye on our prisoner. This—I don’t like this. I’ll have a look.” Valgard watched him turn, scan the line behind them, and pick out his first target, a block of a man with hard eyes. Bug-eye shrugged and dragged Thora back to her place. He was as imperturbable as ever, but Thora appeared revitalized by her night’s activity. She glanced at Botolf’s
back and grinned as he engaged in rapid, hushed conversation with the fighter. Words exchanged, the two headed on down the line, and by the time they reached the end, there were five of them. Botolf led his little group into the woods, where they vanished.
Valgard walked in silence for a long time. Thora and Bug-eye seemed to communicate naturally in their own secret language of nudges, grunts, and nods, which now and again resulted in the trek-master adjusting their course slightly. Around them, the terrain changed as they moved out of the sheltered valleys, past the pine and fir that bounded the farmland, and up into the highlands. Now snow-covered hills and heaths stretched out before them, undulating softly. The land was treacherous, the soft white covering concealing cracks, crevices, and boulders all fit for twisting ankles, breaking limbs, and wrenching backs.
Botolf didn’t return to the front of the line until long after the sun had crawled over the horizon. Behind him, two of his four fighters dragged a man bound hand and foot. The other two limped along behind them.
Bug-eye signaled and the line slowed to a halt. Without needing any further commands, the men split up into groups and started tending horses and doling out rations.
Within moments the stranger was thrown at Valgard’s feet. He was a lean thing, and probably younger than he looked. His clothes were old but well mended.
“Who’s this?” Valgard asked.
“Couple of his friends had been watching us,” Botolf said. “Handy little bastards, too.” Valgard noticed the glares from his soldiers at that. “We lost one, two won’t see much anymore, and I caught this one.” He reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair, and hauled the prisoner up onto his knees. “Didn’t I, boy?” The boy hissed in pain but did not speak.
He’d be about fourteen
, Valgard thought.
That’s a nasty scar on his neck
.
“Oh, my,” Botolf crooned. “We’ve got a nice little tough guy here, haven’t we? Tell me, boy: You look like someone with a bit of sense in you. So why were you watching men like us?”
Valgard watched the boy’s face lock in contempt. His gaze drifted past all of them to some unseen place far away.
“Who sent you?” Botolf yanked the boy’s hair again, but all he got for his troubles was a sharp, indrawn breath and blood seeping from the boy’s scalp. “Right.” He reached for his knife.
Hands bound behind her, Thora strode forward. She turned to Botolf. “Maybe he just needs a woman’s touch.” Without missing a beat, she leveled a vicious kick at the prisoner’s ribs, and the boy crumpled to the ground, coughing. “Right, you little shit,” she snarled. “Talk. It’s your balls next. Who sent you? Was it—?”
The boy coughed in response and spat blood on the snow.
“Oh, but that won’t do, sweetcheeks.” Thora knelt by his side. “Now, you listen to me. Here’s what I’m going to do to you.” Her lips almost touched his ear as Valgard watched her whispering something to the boy. Then, quick as a flash, she bit down on his earlobe.
“Stop! Stop!” he squealed. “It was Hakon! He wanted to—he wanted to make sure you were going where you said! I’m sorry!”
“Hm,” Botolf said. “Right. Let go of the boy’s ear.”
Thora clambered to her feet. “You can’t release him. Give me a knife and I’ll gut him for you.”
“With your hands tied?”
She shot him a weary look. “No. I’ll cut myself loose first. And then I’ll stab you in the eye, single-handedly kill all your men, eat the horses I won’t fuck, and ride the last one to Valhalla. Give me the knife.”
Without a word, Botolf handed her his knife and turned to Bug-eye. “We’re—”
The scream drowned his words, and he whirled back around just in time to see Thora stand up again from the boy’s body with the bloodstained knife clasped in her bound hands. “Done,” she said, shuffling toward the head of the line. “Once you dicks have got your fighting gear on, you’ll talk a man to death. For proper butchery, you need a woman. Now stand up straight, you shit-wipes, and get moving!” With a deft flick of her wrist, she cut her bonds.
The effect was remarkable. The men around her either stood up straight or shuffled to get out of the way. Valgard glanced at Botolf, who was watching Thora.
“We marching?” Bug-eye ventured.
“Looks like it,” Botolf muttered.
As one they turned and walked away from the boy lying in the snow.
Valgard shuddered and wrapped the skins tighter around him, but it was no use. The cold had grown worse the higher up they got; there was no cover to be had anywhere. The rays of the setting sun shone on a distant peak. The cold sneaked in everywhere: it bit at his ankles and his ears; it slashed at his nose and eyes. Behind him, he knew without looking, was a line of men doing the same thing as him: keeping their heads down, trudging along, following the leader, and trying hard to expend as little energy as possible on every step.
The shouts started as faint noise but grew crisper and louder as they traveled on up the line until he could clearly hear them crying, “Wolf!”
By the time Bug-eye had signaled for the line to stop, the growling could be heard, along with someone’s choked screams. Botolf took off at a run, Thora by his side, and Valgard shuffled after them as fast as he could.
Two of Botolf’s men were kneeling over a fallen warrior.
Valgard pushed them out of the way and immediately regretted it. The beasts had gone for the guard’s face, and all that remained was a bloody mess.
Turning away, Valgard noticed the carcasses. “Is this all?”
“Was enough,” Botolf muttered.
“There’s only three wolves,” Valgard said.
“Ain’t right,” he heard someone mutter behind him.
“Why’d they go for us?” another, unfamiliar voice said.
“Maybe there are more,” someone said.
“Shut it, you piss-babies,” Thora said. “And welcome to the north. If you’re not eating, you get eaten.” With that, she walked over to the
nearest wolf, dropped to her knees, and started skinning it energetically. When no one moved around her, she barked, “Fine. But you’re not getting any of mine in two days’ time.”
The men glanced at Botolf, who frowned but nodded.
Bug-eye joined them. “Look,” he said, pointing south. A pair of ravens were circling overhead.
“That’ll be the boy, then,” Botolf said. He turned and looked down at the dead guard. “Make sure you bury him properly. I don’t care if the ground is frozen. Take enough men to get it done. Put him under rocks.” Bug-eye nodded and turned toward the line, picking out men as he went.
Botolf looked at Valgard. “This better be worth it, Grass Man. If you’re wrong, I will be happy to tear you apart. For weeks.”
For a moment Valgard wasn’t sure whether he felt colder on the inside or the outside. “It’s true,” he said, “and we’re going to find it.”
“And what is
it
, exactly?” Botolf said.
Valgard looked at him and formed the sentences in his head:
It is the source of more power than you can imagine. It is the key to eternal life. It is a direct connection to the gods.